Small things changed after that. Nothing Sherlock thought any one would notice, general observers being far less than astute. He allowed the casual touches in public, more for John's sake than his own. Where a word would have served there was sometimes a nudge. Minute brushes of skin when passing something between them became, not frequent - John didn't push like that - but less guarded against. In the flat it was much the same; small motions between the two became less forced apart, contact less militantly avoided.

Sherlock remained confused, but he was able to adjust. He filed away every detail, every look, into the room he reserved in his mind palace for John. He didn't open the room too often, afraid that he may be unable to close the door on those thoughts when he wished to. There was almost always a more pressing matter, something to distract him from that door, and he allowed himself to get swept away in the new direction. Opening that door would just muddy the waters, distract and befuddle, and Sherlock didn't want to deal with the emotional aspect of any of it.

John came in, sighing. "It's raining." Sherlock's tone was bored as he tipped his head back over the arm of the couch to watch John.

"No shit, Sherlock. Whatever told you that? That my hair is damp? My shoes made some tell-tale sound? The fact that they've been going on about the potential for storms tonight on every station?" He chuckled as he slipped his wet shoes off and hung up his coat. "Nothing so mundane as that, surely. Not with you."

"Clever. No." Sherlock pointed a long thin finger to the ceiling. John looked where he pointed, confused.

"Just what is it I'm supposed to be -" he turned in a circle, head up-tilted before making an involuntary sound of disgust.

"Really now John. They're just spiders." He continued to lie there, watching as the small brown house spiders clustered together in the corner. "They're usually not in groups indoors. Came in through the second window on the left. Nearest the pot plant on inside and with a small gap along the top where it doesn't fit properly. Too drafty by the window, instinct says to find safety. Safety means up. Ceiling corners are high, group provides security, it's warmer. Why come in in the first place? Cold, wet environment. It's ... What month is it? ... Anyway. Not time for snow. Spiders congregating in the corner must mean it's raining."

John just sighed. "Well, they and their creepy long legs can stay up there then, but they'd better not find their way to my room." He shuddered.

"Ah, and I thought you liked long legs." John couldn't see his small smile as he waited for the indignant response. John would get flustered, realizing the allusion to Sherlock's own long legs, and either try to deny he'd ever thought about his legs or to try to smooth the implied insult. He was betting that the doctor would try to cover the perceived insult, though in truth Sherlock didn't think it was one. He simply liked to fluster the other man.

"Yes, well, ah. Spider legs are creepy you see. Not like human limbs at all. Human limbs, especially legs, well, long legs are attractive. Some. I mean. Not all humans' legs, long or not, are attractive. I mean, certain people, take you for example, certain aspects... You're not creepy. Well, your legs aren't." He was rambling, stuttering over his words. Finally he sputtered to a stop realizing that he'd just implied that while Sherlock had nice legs he was creepy in other ways. He stood silent for a few moments, just looking a Sherlock, who hadn't moved from his lazy sprawl. "Right then. I'm going to change and make something to eat." He went up to his room.

When he returned he was wearing yet another jumper - the man had to have a collection - and comfortable looking pajama pants. "It's not that cold is it?" He was still on the couch, observing, legs dangling now over the arm rest.

"I'm a bit chilly is all." He shrugged. Slight hitch to the step, tiny wince to the movements. Weather causing aches. Temperature stable in room, no change from usual. Jumper means comfort. He couldn't help but to analyze John as tea was made and food prepared.

"Come on Sherlock, I've made you some as well." John sounded a bit like a mother hen, always trying to get him to eat. Or sleep. Or stop shooting holes in the wall. He smiled inwardly; John was the only person besides maybe his own mum that fussed over him that way. It should irk him he realized, but it had stopped doing so at some time and now he just took it as the genuine concern it was meant as. It didn't mean he was less petulant about it.

When he didn't rise John huffed quietly and brought a plate over. Sherlock took it without sitting up.

"Planning to eat like an otter then?" John watched as Sherlock balance the plate on his chest. "Want me to fetch a stone to crack your dinner open?"

"If I were an otter, my stone would be on hand. They keep them with them in a sort of pouch. Each otter has a special rock that they use each time." He drew a breath and John cut him off.

"Otters? You've taken time to study otters?" There was a glint of laughter in his eyes as he reached to take the plate from Sherlock's chest. His fingers slid under the plate and held slightly longer against his body than was necessary before lifting the food. "Here now, sit up properly so you don't aspirated the little you'll eat." John knew that he'd only pick at the food, yet he made the attempt anyway. Another mother hen moment that made Sherlock's chest ever so slightly tight.

He sat up and took the food back, picking up the fork. "Someone once said I looked a bit like one. I read up." He shrugged. "Don't see it."

"Been told I was a bit like a hedgehog once. Didn't see that either."

"Maybe they were calling you a prick."

John laughed as he went back to his dinner. "No, that's what they usually call you."